


deep enough to drown

by ohtempora



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 03:29:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16421537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: They're in the batting cages. He knows better, but it's late after the game and no one's here.





	deep enough to drown

**Author's Note:**

> this is discord's fault go dodgers

Every time they do this Joc's reminded of how big Puig is, not just his dick but everything else about him: shoulders, thighs, the arm he's got wrapped around Joc's, boxing him in.   
  
They're in the batting cages. He knows better, but it's late after the game and no one's here and they're high on the division win, clinching,not having to play in the wild card game. It's exposed and eerie down here in the dark, the air cool and dry.    
  
Not that it's silent — their breath is loud, and Puig's voice is in his ear, calling him babe, asking if it's good, no space between the words for Joc to respond. Not that he needs to. He's got one hand wrapped around the chain-link fence to brace himself, another hand wrapped around his own dick, he's bent over and panting and his legs are wide open. 

He doesn't know how this happened the first time, how horsing around in the dugout and weight room kept escalating and escalating. Puig’s hands on him, warm, leaning into the touch a moment too long. And it doesn't matter, really, when he trusts Yasiel to do this to him, split him open, lips hot over his fluttering pulse.

“Wanted to work on your hitting, huh,” Joc says, manages to gasp out. There's a joke about hitting it and quitting it in there somewhere but he doesn't care to make it.

“My hitting is good,” Puig says, punctuates it with a thrust that makes Joc moan, go up onto his toes. "You see?"

They've fucked a few other places; hotels, mostly. Joc counts it off by cities instead of remembering the particular hotel rooms: San Diego, San Francisco, Denver, Chicago. Not as much on the east coast, though once in Atlanta. Not that there's a pattern, except when one of them wants it. They've both got too much energy sometimes, to be cooped up in hotels and airplanes, with only a chance to let it out on the green grassy stadium fields. 

They've never done this here. 

“Hey,” Yasiel says, and curls his arm down so he can cup Joc's dick. “You want help?”

“Yeah,” Joc says. “Obviously—” and Yasiel links their fingers together so they're working in tandem. Yasiel’s hand is slick from the lube he'd stashed in his baseball bag, and it makes it so much better, smoother, Joc caught between Yasiel’s hand and his dick, moving with him.

And he can feel Yasiel huge inside him, working him open. Once, one time in San Diego, Yasiel held him down and opened him up with his mouth. The next time he'd licked his bat, wagged his tongue on the basepaths, Joc had flushed bright red watching him.

“Stop thinking,” Yasiel says, drags his mouth over Joc’s jaw. 

“I was— fuck— remembering,” Joc says. “Last time we played the Padres.”

“Oh, that was good.” Another hard thrust, just what he wants. He'd lose his balance if not for the arm around him. “Maybe we do that again, in Atlanta."

“Before the NLDS?”

“Why not?” Yasiel slows down. The drag of his dick is doing something to Joc, making his toes curl. “Like this, yes?”

“ _ Ah —  _ yeah.” Joc pushes back against it, then forward, back into Yasiel’s hand. “Yeah.”

“Good,” and then Yasiel’s mouth is on his neck again, sucking a hickey high on his throat. The chainlink fence is creaking and creaking, and if anyone was going to discover them it'd be now, Joc's moaning, making stupid noises and saying Yasiel’s name—

“You should come,” Yasiel growls, right in his ear, hand twisting over the head of Joc's dick. Joc yelps and does, spilling over Yasiel’s hand, heat spiraling through him. He closes his eyes against the force of it, bites down on his lip. Yasiel is fucking him through it, steady, and Joc whimpers, squirms. “Almost,” Yasiel says, and fucks in hard a few times, mouth still smashed right up against Joc's jaw. He comes with a groan, dick deep inside, arm so tight around Joc's waist that for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

When he pulls out it's wet, and he rubs his thumb over where Joc’s open, playing while Joc shudders. Yasiel knows he likes that, but it takes Joc by surprise every time, how sensitive he is, the blunt press of Yasiel’s hand.

“I have to drive home like this,” Joc says, pulling on his boxers and the track pants he changed into after the game. He'll be sticky and itchy in the car even if the traffic’s calmed down.

Yasiel kisses him full on the lips, squeezes his hip. “Next time I'll get you clean,” he says.

Joc kisses him back. 


End file.
